Camp Nebagamon

by Allen Bennett

Friends and acquaintances often ask me why I travel to Denmark so often and what sparked my interest in that specific Scandinavian country. My answer goes back about six decades.

When I arrived at Camp Nebagamon for my first summer in 1957, there had already been a Danish presence there for five years. Fortunately for me, three of those Danes were still on staff my first summer, so I got to meet and know the pioneering Dane himself, Bendt Rorsted, as well as Niels Jorgensen and Fred Andreasen. They, of course, were followed by many more Danes, some of their names sounding so similar to our unworldly ears that we sometimes got confused. Was it Bendt Nielsen, Niels Bentsen, Jorgen Nielsen, Niels Jorgensen or some other mystical combination? Fortunately we eventually had some Jensens, Mikkelsens, Bojlunds, etc., to help us realize that there were actually other Danish names as well. (To confuse me more, there is a tradition in Denmark of tripartite names and surname changes—often in an attempt to have father, mother and children all share the same last name).

All of the Danes were enthusiastic, friendly, and—perhaps most importantly—very knowledgeable about a “sport” that was completely new to me and, from what I understand, new to American camping when Bendt Rorsted brought it to Nebagamon in 1952. Orienteering became a popular project, combining the technicality of map-and-compass skills with the physicality of hiking. What’s not to like?

When we were campers, it seemed that if you wanted to go to a project where the counselors never had a bad day, where even getting lost could be great fun, and where you could learn something new at every visit (including singing Danish songs or learning a skill that they didn’t even teach at CNOC), then you headed over to the O-tent for an interesting and educational experience.

As much as I liked orienteering, and as great as the Danes were and are, my own interest turned to sailing (water) rather than orienteering (land). Over time I passed all the ranks and eventually headed up the project as a staff member. As far as I know, over the years up to then, all the Danes who had worked at Nebagamon worked in the orienteering project—except for one. And that one, Jakob Ronnow Larsen (he now goes by Jakob Middelboe Ronnow), asked to work in the sailing project instead. With Nardie and Sally’s permission, Jakob joined the sailing staff and, within a matter of hours, Jakob and I began a friendship that has endured for almost 50 years so far.

And so it was that when I started an around-the world solo trip nearly four decades ago, Jakob suggested that I use Denmark in general—and his family’s home in particular—as my base of travel for Europe. I quickly and happily accepted the generous invitation and, when I headed to Europe in late December 1970, it was at their home that I dropped anchor. Once I was there, I had the pleasure of reconnecting with lots of the Danes I had met over the years, but this time on their turf. To a person, they could not have been more welcoming and gracious. It didn’t take long for Jakob’s brothers and sister to “adopt” me as their fifth sibling and for their children to call me their American uncle.

These ambassadors from Denmark brought with them a cultural tradition that is grounded in hundreds of years of history that predates the discovery and founding of America. They were never openly smug about that, but you could tell from our conversations that they were amused at how we would call something “old” that had only been around for a hundred years. And those many kinds of pastries that we Americans simply call a “Danish?” In Denmark, they identify a pastry by the item’s country of origin— a Vienna bread or a French snail or a Belgian torte. So in many ways, I learned a little about Danish humility and perspective.

We also used to laugh about Disneyland’s calling itself the happiest place on Earth and Denmark’s claim to the same title. What I learned from these guys was that they were happy because, among other things, Danes pay very high taxes so that everyone has good medical coverage from before birth through death, everyone’s education is tuition-free for as long as you want to go to school, and even though the cost of living is high, you know where your tax money goes and what it pays for. Compared to us in America, they have far fewer anxieties about some very important things.

Often, some of the Danes would visit camp families around the country before heading back home after the camp season, and they would talk emphatically about the sights, sounds, smells, and sheer size of America. We come from a gigantic country with hundreds of millions of citizens; they come from a comparatively tiny place made up of hundreds of islands—and fewer than six million Danes. They would also marvel at how welcoming, gracious, and generous everyone was. So it wasn’t the least bit surprising that when any of us came to Denmark, they would extend over-the-top hospitality. It wasn’t only because they had received such a warm welcome in American Nebagamon homes, but also because it is simply the Danish way.

Our Danish staff members were, for many of us in those early days, the first “foreigners” any of us had ever met. That alone was exciting. Although the welcome sign in front of the Big House now welcomes you in nearly 30 languages representing campers and staff from other countries, in the early days it seemed rather obvious that camp was “a place of welcome for all”—and not even necessary to mention. But in these days of fear, anxiety, and xenophobia, it’s great to know that one of the first of those signs was placed there because some pretty fabulous Danish counselors spent their summers with us. They introduced us to how enlightening it was (and still is) to meet people from other places, other cultures, other backgrounds. And we could share quality time together in a place that many people also describe as the happiest place on Earth—Camp Nebagamon!

P.S. Jakob and his wife and three sons will be at family camp this year. Woo-hoo!